Sherlock stretched his body within the confines. He turned his wrist but only got another shot of pain from the leather binding. His eyes were covered tightly, though thankfully his legs were free, the pain in his knees notwithstanding.

His captors had starved him for half a day, which was no cause for concern. The screams and verbal abuses went into one ear and out of the other. To top it off, there was no appreciable injury to his body. The only discomfort was that half an hour ago they took off his pants and gave him a light whipping with a belt. Sherlock found that their performance had neither technical nor artistic merit, though considering his situation he kept this to himself.

He cocked his head and tried to listen to the kidnappers' conversations. He could only pick up the sound of laughter.

One of them began to approach him. Halfway through, however, those steps were interrupted by a low noise from outside the window and sounds of collision.

After a momentary silence, someone pushed open the door and entered.

Sherlock waited quietly. The newcomer stopped briefly from two meters away, then picked something up from the ground.

Five seconds later, he realized that something was a pistol. As the gun barrel was moving up along his inner thigh, it was difficult to recognize the particular make. Normally the cold and hard steel would be unbearable on those body parts, but it only made Sherlock's contracted muscles tickle lightly.

He took in a deep breath.

"Let go of me. You know you won't get what you want."

Only the echoes of his own tired voice came back to him. The pistol slithered over the tight skin and quickly found its way into the only piece clothing he had left on his lower body.

It was meaningless to refuse or resist with the gun barrel resting squarely on his testicles. Sudden tremors wrecked their way through Sherlock's inside, and he had to bite down hard on his lips to suppress a scream. The bastard. He attempted to contort his body as if he could ignore the restraints. Yet no matter which direction he turned, the barrel only nuzzled against his privates as if it belonged there.

The metal warmed up from his body's temperature. Sherlock didn't have to look to know that his skin had already been reddened by the touch. From the slight sting on his skin, he could even make out the fine spiral pattern left by the lathe on the barrel.

Sherlock's knees trembled and his lips opened up. He mentally forbade his thighs to close by reflex, yet to remain open to the intrusion dangerously resembled tacit acquiescence. The only option was to remain motionless, but even that choice was taken away in the next moment when the cursed gun began its cheerful climb. It lingered on his already erect cock for a while, then with a skillful tug, Sherlock's gray shorts gave away.

The fact was that every man possessed two brains, even Sherlock Holmes. Another fact was that during this unexpected skirmish, the brain above lost to the brain below, no contest. Finally gave up on out-thinking the situation, Sherlock raised his head slightly and arched his body in both humiliation and excitement.

The pistol hovered over his cock's tip and began to encircle it. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Sherlock let out a quiet moan. He shut his eyes tightly and began to feel moisture seeping into the black blindfold. As he imagined the coal-black gun barrel snaking its way right around his cock and the steady hand that held it, he could no longer bite back the whimpers. There was an explosion within him that traveled down his spine, and the muscles in his thighs went into spasm.

The culprit moved slightly backwards, as if in retreat. Now.

Sherlock suddenly hooked his right leg around his tormentor. The man's body leaned forward and fit snugly against his nakedness. No longer caring about the gun or the dangers it posed, Sherlock thrust against that body with frantic abandon. The peculiar smell of semen spread in the air, and the splattering liquid made a perfect mess on both of them.

He had done it.

Sherlock exhaled deeply, still not letting go of his prey. With the slightest hint of malice, he shifted his weight against the man, buried his face in those shoulders, and smirked.